Metallic Gray Matter
by Capra hircus
Summary: There are some places an enemy should never go.


**Author's Note:** This is, if you cannot tell by the heading, going to be a chapter fic, and hopefully a nice long one at that. I ask you only to approach it with an open mind and to have patience. All your questions WILL be answered, if only you wait for them. If you are daunted by the size... well, I do suppose that is your choice, and perhaps your loss. The Author's Note I type right now will be the only one for this fic, given there is not something extremely urgent I must convey at the beginning of some later chapter. I find having an excess of these to be tedious, and, well, how many notes should one story really have? But please, do have patience, both with me and my story. I am not the fastest writer , nor to I plan to rush to finish any of this. But it WILL be finished, whether it takes me a few months, or a few years. You have my word. Oh, and yes: this does have planned slash. Don't get your hopes up, though, and don't drop them either. And please. Don't ask for it. Plot always comes first. 

None of the characters in this story are mine, nor do I wish them to be. Things just wouldn't be as fun that way.

xxXxx

**Metallic Gray Matter**

Chapter One: Rules of the Game

The end of the world was nothing as I expected it to be.

I suppose we all have some set view of it all, deep down; our own personal apocalypse contained safe within our minds. The variations to it are many, as they are in people, but there are some things one takes for granted. Destruction, for instance. Death, and so much of it. Suffering.

Funny, how off we were. How off _I_ was.

Standing amid it all then, it was hard not to be surprised. As odd as it might sound, I think a great fiery mass accented by the tortured screams of those so unlucky to still be living would have been met with little more than a blink. After all, that was what we had been secretly prepped for our entire lives, spoon-fed to us through religion, education—even the simple act of existing at all. Though, really, perhaps secretly is not the best word in my case, or of those of the classmates whom I have had the misfortune of associating with; Miss Bitters was hardly subtle. Her constant premonitions of doom and pain ended up being just as ludicrous as everyone assumed my paranormal claims to be. Interestingly enough, this fact was one of the first things to pop in my head as I studied with wide eyes the site around me. Somehow, somehow, I managed to laugh. _Who's crazy now?_ I had thought, not without some sort of satisfaction, failing all the while to realize the very question only made myself look worse. Not that there was anyone around to point that out, a fact for which I am now grateful, if purely out of the inborn tendency towards embarrassment that plagues all humans. But it hadn't even occurred to me at the time; I wasn't that unaffected by the scene before me.

No, nothing like I thought at all.

First to catch my eye, or, rather, my attention, was the absolute lack of people. Now, before you go making assumptions that I can assure you now are most likely to be quite wrong, allow me to elaborate. Bespectacled amber eyes wide and mouth agape, I slowly took in the fact that I was completely alone, there in the middle of the usually busy street. Alone not simply in the terms of the living either, as there was no sight whatsoever of ANY other creature within the range of my sight, be it on the street accompanying me or in the buildings branching off of it. There were no bodies to be seen, no sign that there ever had been. Activity was virtually nonexistent, save that provided by my own shell-shocked self. My thoughts then were probably about the same as anyone else's would have been, had they known what I knew: where was the death? Sadistic though that might sound, it felt only natural to wonder. Everyone knew there was a formula to be had for this, the very end, but here it seemed as if someone had seriously messed up with writing the equation. The end of the world equals death. That much should have been given! So where was it? Where were the people screaming, the people suffering, the people meeting their own slow demises? Why was there this… nothingness when there should have been pain? Easily could it have been argued, given that there had been someone else there to do such arguing, that the people had gone for cover, hiding out in the buildings that seemed as dead as the streets. Or that those in charge had intercepted a great bomb threat or something of the like and had evacuated the city. None too farfetched in such a situation though those options were, I never paused to even bother with considering them. Something—an unquestioned something, much like the results it produced—had told me, quite plainly, that there WERE no more people. Not there or anywhere near there, at least. This something told me that I was standing in a quite literal ghost town, and that something was right. I was all alone.

Around me on all sides stood the buildings, almost unchanged from their former selves. A strange thought, when it occurred to me; for the people to be gone, shouldn't there have been some reason for them to be gone? Some act of destruction or source of fear to drive them away, to explain for their sudden absence? But yet the buildings were standing, different from before only in small, nearly unnoticeable features. For one, the electricity seemed to have been cut, killing the flashy, blinking lights of some of the more prominent businesses' signs. All windows visible to my lens-assisted eyes—and there were many of them visible, so very many—were dark and lifeless, appearing to my overactive imagination as deep, black pits in which I could easily be lost, dare I to venture near. Quite the unpleasant sensation. If, somehow, I was to have doubted that time to indeed be the end, the empty glares of the buildings would have been all the assurance I needed. Here and there I could see a few places where minute damage had been done to the outer casings, from dented, crumbling walls to even a few instances of glass missing in those accusatory windows. In all I could see, there was but one which looked upon the brink of collapsing, rubble surrounding its base and structure leaning, looking as if the slightest wind could send it tumbling over. Yet none were actually destroyed, demolished. There were no flames gracing any of their walls, no pitiful, dying outsides while they were undone from within by unrelenting heat turned visible. No broken-in windows, no doors hanging ajar or falling off of their hinges—even the gray, lightless signs appeared to be in quite decent shape. Knowing who the culprit was behind it all, it was a most unbelievable discovery.

Yet, out of all of this, the thing that struck me as most peculiar about the eerie calm was the apparent disappearance of any and all vehicles. Perhaps that might sound strange, after what I had noted previously, but it remains as so. My logic being that, simply, while there are far and many places to hide a group of humans in a city, there are very, very few said places to hide a group of cars. As was usual in most, the city that had surrounded my childhood held very few personal garages, resorting instead to open parking lots and whatever street space one could find. Even on a relatively lifeless day, the curbs would be lined heavily with the ungodly machines, their owners quick to claim a convenient spot while competition was down. They were almost part of the landscape, unnatural glints of metal and chrome blending in perfectly with the rest of the manmade world, a thing to be dismissed rather than noticed at all. After all, a city without cars is like…well, a city without people. Looked like I had stumbled across both.

But before I could begin to ponder the absence that I found so very strange, I was stirred out of my contemplations by a faint noise behind me, almost inaudible. I had been so immersed in my thoughts that I had failed to notice the sudden other presence, a mistake I surely would not have made if I had been on my guard, as I should have been. A surprised blink was the only change in my features, already awestruck as they were, before I whirled around, fists balled and at the ready in the likely event of a brawl. Imagine my shock when I found myself face to face with _him._

He had changed, to say the very least. Most noticeable of all these changes being, quite plainly, the vast increase in height. After all my time in that very city spent observing, chasing, and fighting him, he had never appeared to have grown from the size at which he had stood the very first day he had stepped foot there. If I had been anyone else, I probably wouldn't have recognized him, but, of course, I did. Hard not to remember the face of one's longtime sworn nemesis. From my estimates, he looked to be well over six feet, towering over myself by at least one. How he had gotten to be that way, I hadn't the slightest clue, and I didn't suppose I ever would; it failed to matter in the great scheme of things, and thus failed to matter to me. The little maroon uniform I had grown so accustomed to over the years was gone, replaced with an outfit more suitable for his sudden change of height. Armor lay in coats on his chest and shoulders, colored a vivid red to match his great, glistening eyes. It was laid flat against his torso, unlike that of his leaders' own, accenting wiry muscles that hadn't been there before. Twin midnight-black combat boots ran up to his knees, a pair of heavier duty than anything he had owned before, multiple buckles that were more for show than anything else running up the sides. His gloves remained unchanged save thin plates of armor, silver, over the back of his hand and knuckles. As always, his Pak clung to his upper back, between his shoulder blades, nestled snugly into the new metal covering. Strangest about it all, though, was the impression it gave; not of war dress, or even as means of protection. No; this new outfit, like the buckles on his boots, appeared to be primarily for show, a display of class. Of superiority—yes, but not kingly superiority. Not the wear of a ruler of a planet, much less the universe, by any means. Peculiar…

But ruler or not, Zim was still not what one would consider second or middle class either. Just as before, he held himself with a look of dignity that, while it had looked foolish all the years previous, then succeeded in giving him an air of regality that the uniform only intensified. Aside from the addition of a few feet—feet I had yet to gain, if I ever would—and the appearance of those thin muscles, the only kind that seemed to work with the Irken structure, the enemy had undergone few other physical changes. When I gazed upon that face, the one that would sometimes appear in my dreams, laughing at me in that sinister yet idiotic way only he could manage, I found it to be the same as it had always been. Same great, strikingly scarlet bug-eyes, same infamous green complexion, result of his supposed "skin condition", same jet-black antennae, twitching ever so slightly in a non-existent breeze. He had not bothered to don the hideous disguise for obvious reasons, a fact for which I was glad; I had always thought he looked better without it. At least that way he wasn't pretending to be something he was so clearly not. And somehow, that was more relieving to me; on the very rare occasions I would begin to doubt myself, it served as a wake-up call, a reminder that seemed to shout, "This is me, and I am the enemy!" for all my skeptical head voices to hear. Living, breathing evidence staring me straight in the eye; the kind of thing I lived for.

Behind him was a small group of what I took to be lackeys, looking and acting quite humbled by their much taller leader. Height, I recalled, was of great importance in his society, and however small and insignificant he had been before, his sudden growth spurt had placed him much higher up on the social ladder. They were all dressed in the type of uniform he had used to wear, though the length and width varied from alien to alien; there was an amazingly stout individual who appeared to be missing a neck, as opposed to his neighbor, whose thin, lanky form looked as if the slightest wind could simply pick him up and blow him away. None of them seemed to have noticed me; all were too busy staring in awe at the back of the giant as if they were both fascinated and terrified by his presence simultaneously. Personally, I found their reactions to be pathetic almost to the point of being disgusting. What was he, after all, but the destructive, maniacal fool I had known with simply a longer form? Someone to be treated with caution and the restriction of the use of large words, rather than wide-eyed worship. Honestly, the five of them had to even denser than he, if such a thing was even possible.

All of this I took in within the time span of two breathless seconds, before my old rival had managed to fix his gaze entirely on the human before him. When he did catch sight of me, his great blood-red eyes seemed to double, antennae perking in an almost comical fashion. One long leg outstretched, as if I had caught him in mid-stride, he halted, going entirely still in his place a few yards away from where I then stood. How he had missed me for so long, or I him, for that matter, I couldn't say. His idiot minions caught on soon later, noticing their leader had stopped and finally getting the bright idea to look somewhere other than his magnificent back. Most wore similar expressions when first laying eyes upon me, soon changing to looks of horror and, in one case, raw fury. This I noticed only as a passing thought, as my full attention was quickly focused on the one I had fought and grown to know for so long. Our eyes met almost instantly, holding an unwavering stare that seemed to last an eternity, both of us aware of nothing but the other. A kind of duel with the eyes, one might say; in all the times we had done this, it would become a contest to see who would break the gaze first, which of us was of the weaker will. Many a time it had resulted in the sudden, angry accusations of a teacher, causing both sets of eyes to break away almost concurrently from the jolt; both of us were much too stubborn to ever let our opponent win, making such battles a constant pain. But the challenge was different this time; the wide orbs peering back at my own never lost that look of astonishment, never reverted to the narrowed, hostile glare that usually accompanied such matches. There was a faint whispering in my mind as we watched each other, a quiet, nearly inaudible string of murmured words, none of which I could make out. I paid it no mind, too absorbed in the image of my rival, waving it away as if it was a normal occurrence—something it was most definitely not. We stood that way for a long moment, neither moving, not even for so much as a blink, both ignoring the tentative, skittish movements of the others present, as if we were blind to everything and everyone else. In a sense, we were. Then he spoke, and the spell was broken, shattered and falling to the cold ground like so many pieces of broken glass.

"What are you doing here, Dib-human?" The expression that had met me initially had yet to leave his face, and his tone matched it quite perfectly; he spoke almost breathlessly, the usual venom absent in his voice, replaced instead by utmost disbelief. Never did he drop his gaze, continuing to stare at me with that look of wide-eyed wonder. It was highly disconcerting, because _by God!­_—he was really that surprised to see me, when it was he who had brought about the end of my very world. Shouldn't he be aware of his greatest nemesis's condition and, at the very least, whereabouts? Why should finding me here, in the empty city of my childhood, be so shocking?

By the time he had voiced his question, all the questions _I_ should have been asking had slipped away, those curious ponderings about the lack of people, destruction, cars; all the random inquiries that had popped up in my head and that should have been flying out of my mouth had vanished instantly at the sound of his voice. Instead I was left with a single, confused query, the result of his own. About to express it, I began to part my lips when it happened.

Something flashed before my mind's eye, a sudden, solitary image that left me almost as soon as it had appeared. A split second's view was all I was able to manage, but that little time was more than enough to get through to me all the mental picture had to offer. In that small, eerily white room, which my mind quickly identified as a holding cell, and that single chair with the shackles running up its legs and arms, I had learned all I would ever need to know. Such understanding from a seemingly simple thing might have normally made me falter, the logical part of my brain demanding investigation I would gladly take part in. Here, the image and the knowledge it brought with it left no room for doubt; the thoughts it had stirred in my psyche were all factual, more like data transferred from its original home to the metaphorical computer of my brain than ideas or conclusions said computer had produced itself. All this was instantly clear in the blink of an eye, and I did not question. There was no need.

Slowly, my partially-opened lips closed again, and the corners of my mouth lifted in a smile.

"You thought you could contain me." The words were out of my mouth before I had time to consider them, spoken calmly and emotionlessly, as if I was stating the weather. As I continued on, my tone grew more and more smug, the smirk almost audible in my very voice. "You thought you could keep me there. Control me. Make me succumb to your every will simply because it is within you that I reside." No longer able to control myself, I emitted a cold bark of laughter, mockery and sweet victory dripping off my every word. "And you can't! You can't control me, Zim! Do as you will, but you can't so much as touch me! I'll always get away!"

For the briefest of moments, a look of confusion flickered in his ruby eyes, gone completely a second later. At his sides, his long fingers curled up into his palms in two tight, slightly quivering fists, and the "almighty" invader as I knew him reemerged from his previously calm, albeit surprised, shell. The familiar malice that he had been lacking before had returned in full form, and his eyes had narrowed once again to the dangerous slits I was so accustomed to, a scowl spreading on his face as his antennae laid flat against the back of his skull. Soon it was not just his fists quivering but his entire new body, in a gesture I knew to mean he was about to explode. Perhaps it was because I had been dealing with him far too long, but this sight stirred not even the smallest blink from me. Far in the depths of my mind, I was silently thankful for the regained normality; a change of my enemy's personality was the last thing I needed, whether it would prove to be an improvement or not. Besides, I had had to deal with enough changes in everything else already. This way, he was predictable once again. So rather than back down at the sudden hostility, I merely laughed again with the most taunting noise I could make. Rather than charge at me, as he would have done before, he simply growled, digging his claws deeper into the black material as he clenched his zipper-like teeth. Though he did not break eye contact with me—as neither of us had done since the visual bond was created—his left antenna made the smallest twitching movement as one of his booted feet ground silently against the pavement. My first thought on this was that he looked like a bull about to charge, but quickly was this mistake remedied by the knowledge years of experience with the alien gave me; for as long as I knew him, he had never hesitated to attack when there was not an immediate danger posed against him. I did not need the mental murmuring to tell me he was ordering his minions to attack. Ever unfazed, I simply smirked, still unmoving from my original position.

"Don't you get it, _Zim_?" His name I spat out as if it was something vile, a word that would dirty my tongue, though my satisfied grin was unwavering. "You. Can't. Control. Me." Each word was emphasized more intensely than the last, so that my voice, while still calm, had grown to the volume of a shout by the word "me"; I took great pleasure in watching his rage growing with it, knowing any attempts he might make to unleash it would be futile. "You can't do _anything._"

This, it seemed, was the straw that broke the camel's back. From his throat came a snarl, followed soon after by an incoherent cry of frustration as he stomped furiously on the ground, hands reaching up to yank at his antennae viciously as the noises grew louder. Our gaze, held for so long, was finally broken as he turned away, still yelling in that funny way of his as he kicked out at the closest thing to him, which just so happened to be one of the advancing lackeys. After seeing their companion gone flying into the wall of a nearby building, the rest of them stopped in their tracks, turning terrified eyes up once again to their currently fuming leader. In his fit, he paid them no mind; it was a minute or so before he could control himself enough to throw a hate-filled glare back my way. Gloved claws still grasping at his antennae, he growled low in his throat, dislike etched in every facet of his scowling countenance.

"…HORRIBLE human!"

And with that, everything disappeared: Zim, his followers, the buildings, the city—everything. Nothing but darkness on all sides, that endless world of black, leaving me alone with only the continuous, echoed curses of my host for company. Nevertheless, I was far from disheartened. Falling back into the darkness with a body I either didn't have or couldn't see, I grinned up at the vast emptiness with a sweet taste on my tongue. Even the unintelligible shouts and mutterings sounded pleasant to my ears for once; nothing could spoil my mood.

I had won.

xxXxx

My victory had taken place about two days ago, though that figure may be off just slightly or else greatly; keeping track of time is hard in such a place, and truthfully my host rarely thinks in Earth standards, much less in sync with the time zone. While he is not completely clueless in such fields, as one might have imagined, separating actual fact from his musings is far from easy, and even then it is unlikely I will find what I am looking for; our time serves him no purpose, and therefore, for the most part, he does not bother himself with knowing it. School—still horribly misspelled by both staff and students, in such a way it makes me cringe—had let out weeks before, and thus he no longer had even THAT simple schedule for me to go by. Frustrating does not begin to explain it.

Nor can I tell the date or approximate time by the light. Most of this is due to the fact that he had not yet raised the invisible blinds that keep me in the dark, the nothing. Though it is impossible for him to cut me off completely, it was a long time before there was anything besides the never-ending string of curses and muffled threats. His temper, like most things, could only last so long; though I know him to be quite the stubborn creature, he also lacks a proper attention span or interest. That which had him storming around in the dark for what felt like ages soon stirred nothing but the usual verbal abuse, at most a little sharper than it normally would be. Sometimes I can't help but laugh at it; I don't think he knows just how ridiculous he sounds half of the time. Then I am quick to remember my situation and all humor dies within me at the drop of a hat. True, a battle had been won, and such was means for celebration, but the war was still rumbling on. It is not the time to let my guard down; not now, not ever.

This war we are fighting is much more…docile, I suppose one could say. Not civilized, no; to call the rivalry between us civilized is to call a resting crocodile tame. For though this is a dispute we are forced to take on without weaponry, without fists, all the brutality we had ever directed towards one another is present and, if anything, increased. It is a fight, we know, that neither can yet win; both of us have too much on stake, but not to lose—rather, it is the burden to be gained with winning that keeps the war on hold. Neither had ever dueled this way, and unless I am sadly mistaken, I believe it is quite safe in saying that, assuming at least one gets out of this, neither of us will ever duel this way again. A bizarre twist to the vicious game we had kept up for just over three years now. Funny that such a thing would be the result of an accident.

Adjusting was…difficult, to say the very least. Neither of us, I'm sure, can honestly claim to be fully accustomed to the situation just yet, but—well, they say a person can get used to just about anything. This, I suppose, is no exception, for all its abnormality and obscurity. Almost creepy, thinking this could become nothing more than an aspect of life to me, and more so because it already seems to be doing so. What had before shocked me to the point of panic has since been normalized, just another part to just another ordinary day. Frightening, but then again, hadn't I always been the one who thought nothing of the vastly paranormal? When one has that thought in mind, somehow this all becomes significantly less surprising. Everything seems to be doing that nowadays.

Interestingly enough, I seem to be having an easier time of it than Zim himself. I would have thought, naturally, that given the circumstances, he would be the one to come out on top. Oh, I'm not denying his idiocy, but the fact was he had the home advantage, knew the territory and all its properties well, making himself out to be an expert in the field. It was, after all, _his_ terrain, while I was but an intruder thrown into uncharted waters. By rule, he should have had it easy; he should have struck me down swiftly and ruthlessly, taking control of both me and the situation. This assumption, however, did not take into account the guidelines of which that situation encompassed. They would make all the difference in the world.

Part of these new rules had been brought into light the day of my victory. For one, I had full control of myself and my decisions, despite where I was. And for another, my dear enemy could do nothing to prevent that. He had no means of bending my will, be it by manipulation with words or by force. To put it differently, he had no effect on me, at least no more than any person had over another. Simple enough, but then, this was only the beginning. There are so many things past that point; so very many.

One thing that I found particularly _pleasing_ upon discovering would quickly prove to be one of the biggest problems. _His_ problems, anyway—or so I thought at first. You see, for the first time ever, I had achieved something I had been trying for all those long years, up to the very first day of our never-ending and somewhat infamous rivalry. Something had gone RIGHT for me, by God; even out of a situation I had thought would prove to be my very end. How to explain? Imagine, just for a moment, everything you know and have ever known; every tiny piece of information, every bit of knowledge right up to what you had for breakfast the morning before last. Now take all that information, all that memory, and imagine it in one place: one grand structure, a library of sorts, all dedicated to any and every thing you know. Take that structure, and give one person the key.

Imagine that person is from a whole other world, galaxies from your own.

Zim's grand library had been erected, and I was the holder of that key. _I_, his greatest and most troublesome opponent, had access to all the knowledge in and of his world! Everything I had ever worked for, everything I had tried and failed to learn for so very long, set before me on a silver platter! My Lord, how wonderful it felt! How amazingly, indescribably, unbelievably wonderful! It was the verification that I was right, the recognition I had never gotten, the sweet, beautiful knowledge that all my struggles had not been in vain. And do you know the best part of it all? Do you really?

I could go _everywhere._

Never before had I been granted such an opportunity. After all those failed attempts to break into his base, to swipe data from his vast computer systems, and after walking out—well, thrown out, usually—every time with only a couple random, and often useless, new facts learned, if any at all, it was a godsend. In all my dreams, I never would have imagined such a thing being possible, much less having it being opened up to _me_, of all people. Yet it had, and suddenly I was swimming in an ocean of knowledge that would have taken me a lifetime and then some to gather. Such bliss I felt, I cannot even begin to explain. Could you, if all your dreams had come true in a quite literal blink of the eye? Even now, I find it hard to believe, though I have lived with it for some time already. Though, of course, for entirely different reasons, as my view on it has changed considerably since that day so long ago. Because, you see, even though he could do little to nothing to stop my eager ventures, there was a catch.

Those miserable catches. Why does it seem there always is one, just waiting around the corner to jump out just as things are going well? Just once, I'd like the good things in my life to be free of catches. But then, who doesn't wish that, at some point or another? Ah, well.

Just as he could do nothing to control or manipulate me, I could do nothing to him. _EVERY single thing_ he knew, everything he would EVER know, all at my fingertips, and I could use none of it against him! Like being handed the weapon that can win the war and then being told it's only a floor model, purely display. And let me tell you, the novelty of having such a possession dies down all too quickly once learning it can't be used. But I still held hope, if solely because it is the only thing that keeps me going some days in here. Held the hope that, one day, and one day soon, I would get out and thus be able to use my magnificent weapon at last. That hope, I'm sad to say, died almost as quickly as it was dreamed up. Only reasonable, I suppose, as it had been born at a time when I still had yet to realize just what this glorious "opportunity" meant for me. It didn't take long; no more than a day, really.

Because it is one thing to own a key to such a library; it is another thing entirely to be locked inside. Take a stab at guessing which proved true for my new situation.

One only really wants information when one can control it, I think; it would explain why many children are so hateful of school in most instances, it being the place where fact after fact are shoved down their throats. Control is always important when it comes to such things; when one is able to choose just what it is one is learning, there isn't that sense of…helplessness. Of being a pawn to something bigger, something better. At least then, there is the delusion of having a say in things, of that wonderful control one will never really have. Because no one really wants to know _everything_; there is such a burden to be had with such vast knowledge. And no one likes a burden.

But I'm rambling again, aren't I? Ah, well; I do tend to do that. Especially here.

Back to what I was getting at. This…this library, this great, metaphorical structure that I had taken to be the answer to all my prayers—not that I actually prayed; I have never known much of a religion—it should have been everything I thought it was. _Should have._ Then again, when does anything go as it should have, really? To say it simply: it wasn't. It was so much less, and yet, at the same time, so much more. No control. None. Everything, EVERYTHING… it all rushed at me. All at once. And I couldn't block it out. I still can't. Just as he can't keep me out, for all his attempts, I can't keep his _horrible_ knowledge away. For a long time, there at the beginning, I thought…I thought I was going to go insane. Hell, I thought I _had_ gone insane, thought it all had broken through my long-preserved barriers in but a second's time. The thought was more terrifying than I could ever put into words.

Didn't I tell you: you can adjust to anything. As far as I'm aware, I haven't fallen nearly as far as I thought I had, for those few horrifying…days? Weeks? I don't know.

Sometimes…sometimes I think it might be better, to be insane. God, I must be crazy just being able to put up with this!

White noise.

That's what I see it as, now. I don't know if I should be comforted by that thought or not. It's just static, ever-running white noise playing in the background—but never so far off that I can't hear it. That I can't understand it. And that's how it's distinguished from simply being the noise I've come to think of it as: it makes sense, means something. A good majority of it isn't even in the form of words; words are rarer than most people might think. Maybe it might seem the flashes would be more bothersome, but, really… I got used to it. Why is it that I can actually think of it as normal! Normal now, anyway. I'm not crazy. I know there's something else. Of course I do! After all, that "something else" was how I spent the great part of my life. What's a few weeks? Months? Compared to a lifetime, young though that lifetime might be? God, I just can't keep on track. I say I'm used to this, but gah, look at me go! My mind is one big ball of tangents. And again! The word "digress" has never applied so much to a sentient being.

Words are the worst, I think. Even if I can't close my eyes to the flashes, as it's all witnessed in my mind's ever-open eye anyway, I learned to ignore them as best I could. And even then…it's like a silent movie, one that needs no verbal explanation because the information is already in my head; play a hundred of those movies at one time, and they'll still be silent. But when it's WORDS! Like a thousand bees buzzing right in your ear and you can't for the life of you swat them all away. They're all saying something different, too, and this time it just doesn't turn into a great, meaningless noise, either; you have to understand each and every one of them, because you can't NOT understand. And it's all at once. It's maddening, if nothing else here is. I just want him to SHUT UP!

He hears me, too, but it's not the same. _My_ library is still quite securely locked; he only hears me when I choose to speak. It irritates him all the same; that is what I have to keep in mind, when I am feeling so close to breaking, to giving up. I can take the advantage here; it's practically being handed right to me. Already I have thrown him off so much. Now if only I can find some way to break out of this standstill at which we have been caught for so long and use it!

…Ah, at last. Temporary though it may be—only time will tell—the blanket thrown over my eyes has been lifted. He must have grown weary of the dark, as I knew he would; having to endure the same view as I in order to "punish" me is another one of the many drawbacks here. As of now I can't tell if he was just impatient or is choosing to drop it at last. Right now, I don't even care. It's just so nice to see again! Granted, the only scenery is the room of his labs I have long since gotten accustomed to and bored of, and there's nothing very interesting to look at, but it's so much better than the (noisy) nothing. I don't even mind that I'm seeing through his eyes, rather than a pair I don't really have anymore. But I've gotten used to that too.

Ignoring me. Again? Well, no matter; he won't be keeping it up for very long. Hard to, when the thing he's trying to ignore is a part of him. And he always IS talking to himself, after all. Give it time; he'll be talking to me again soon enough. He always does. Neither of us have anyone else to talk to, now. We are so bad at keeping silent.

For now, though, I'll just enjoy the view and wait for the words to come. Hell, this time I'll let him come to me. What do I need conversation for? I hear everything all the same.

Funny, how I've gotten used to it all. But not really.

Because it is so very strange…

Living in the mind of the enemy.


End file.
